


self-destruction

by flannelblues



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Autistic Spencer Reid, Drug Use, Episode: s02e15 Revelations, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26855965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flannelblues/pseuds/flannelblues
Summary: He never asked to be dragged by his ankles from that field, he never asked for that syringe to pierce his veins. Now, he almost wishes he never asked to come home. Maybe it would’ve been easier that way.
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner & Spencer Reid, Derek Morgan & Spencer Reid, Emily Prentiss & Spencer Reid, Jason Gideon & Spencer Reid, Jennifer "JJ" Jareau & Spencer Reid
Comments: 3
Kudos: 89





	self-destruction

**Author's Note:**

> please remember to read the tags, this story is a bit heavy.

It’s been four weeks since Spencer Reid was pulled out from a ditch in the dead of night and fell into Hotch’s arms. Four weeks since he used his own clothes, thick with blood and bile, to hide the vials he stole from a dead man’s body. The man he killed. It’s been four weeks and three days since he and JJ were sent to that farm, like a pair of canaries flying into the stiff, cold and dark night. 

But no, that’s not right. Hotch didn’t know that Tobias was dangerous, he wouldn’t have sent them if he did. And Reid’s well aware of that. He’s also aware that someone has had to have noticed that every time Reid leaves his desk to ‘use the bathroom’ he picks up his messenger bag with spindly, trembling fingers. Returning twenty minutes later and not returning Morgan or Emily’s wary glances. His sleeve always creased but never seen rolled up.

He never let them take him to a hospital, afraid of the track marks they’d surely find. Hotch and Morgan had initially dug their feet in the ground, but all it took was a simple, teary-eyed plea to just go home and sleep, please, and he was on the jet the next morning.

JJ keeps her distance with a small attempt at subtlety, but he always catches her cloudy blue eyes lingering on him whenever they’re in groups. He knows that she’s sorry, and if he could grab her by the shoulders and shout that it wasn’t her fault, scream that he forgives her a thousand times, he would. 

Morgan hovers unashamedly. He’s always the one to make sure Spencer gets to the metro safely until he’s snapped at on a cold afternoon when Spencer just can’t take the guilt swallowing him anymore. Morgan doesn’t yell back at him, just gives his shoulder a squeeze, and promises that he’s still there if he needs anything at all. Because Morgan's a good friend, one he knows that deep down, he doesn't deserve.

He admittedly doesn’t really know Emily well enough yet to be able to recognize the differences between her current and previous behavior. She makes awkward small talk at the coffee machine, a glint of poorly hidden suspicion casting over her features.

Hotch is as quiet and professional as ever. Spencer can’t look him in the eyes, he just hopes that the older man knows he didn’t mean a word he said to Raphael. One morning Spencer accidentally puts too much of his weight on his bad foot and gives a small hiss of pain. Hotch can’t look him in the eye either.

Gideon doesn’t even talk to him except for when he absolutely has to. It makes Spencer grind his teeth and drop his gaze whenever they’re in a room together. He didn’t ask for any of this to happen.

He never asked to be dragged by his ankles from that field, he never asked for that syringe to pierce his veins. Now, he almost wishes he never asked to come home. Maybe it would’ve been easier that way.

Maybe he could’ve simply stayed dead on that cold, dirty, hard floor _(he can’t sleep on his back anymore, not without shooting back awake, feeling like he's been resuscitated again)_ , remembered as a kind, however awkward, respectable agent. Not been showered with undeserved tight hugs from Garcia, the woman who has always been too kind for any of this unaware that he was slowly deteriorating, dying.

Killing himself, really.

He knows every statistic about addiction to every drug. He could recite facts and figure for hours like they’re nursery rhymes. And yet it’s all so easy to ignore. He doesn’t care how much Dilaudid is destroying him because in those moments, those beautiful, blissful moments, it takes away every bit of pain he’s ever felt. 

Dilaudid makes him feel like nothing’s wrong, has ever been wrong, and will never be wrong. 

Until the high is over and everything just crashes down upon him. By that point though, he’s already craving more.

He wants to tell someone that he’s not okay, wants to tear his hair out in tangles, throw paper and ceramic mugs from each desk in the bullpen and scream and cry and he wants the team to tell him that he’s not welcome here anymore, that they never really wanted him to begin with. 

But then he wants to be told that it’s okay a thousand times over, that they all still love him dearly. Everything to go back to how it used to be.

He wants to just lock the door to his apartment one day and never come back out, and for not one of them to come looking for him.

Anything would be better than this. Than the thick, unwavering fog of tense atmosphere that seems to follow him everywhere.

He lays in bed for hours these days, not reading, not doing anything really. Sometimes he’s high, sometimes he’s in so much pain from withdrawal that he wants to cry, that he does cry, deep and ugly sobs. Screaming pathetically into his pillows and sheets until he feels like he can’t breathe anymore.

Distant memories of Elle come and go. He digs his ragged fingernails into his forearms.

And what’s the point anymore? 

A part of him wants to man up, go big or go home. Stop feeling sorry for himself and start being a functional human being again. Start being useful on cases again instead of just an extra hotel room to pay for. Or he could jump off the roof of his apartment building, but then he’s never really liked heights. He knows that the easiest thing to do would be to turn on the TV, accidentally overdose and spend his last moments in something resembling happiness. 

God, _(but don't ever speak the lord’s name in vain, he reminds himself)_ he wishes he could just make up his mind, finish what Tobias, his father, and the archangel had started.

But he’s weak, he could never bring himself to do any of those options properly. He could never swallow his fear and just get it over with. He’s weak,

**Author's Note:**

> a bit all over the place, but I've been emotional(tm) about revelations lately. Lemme know what you thought!


End file.
